I
asked in vain a dozen people last summer, what that flower was called,
pointing to the ubiquitous Joe Rye weed or pink motherwort. At last I
asked one man, who affected to know everything--
"Oh, yes, I know it."
"What is it?" I persisted.
"Well, I know it just as well, but can't just now get the name out." A
pause, then, with great superiority: "I'd rather see a potato field in
full bloom, than all the flowers in the world."
Perhaps some of Tolstoi's disciples may yet solve the problem of New
England's abandoned farms. He believes that every able-bodied man should
labor with his own hands and in "the sweat of his brow" to produce his
own living direct from the soil. He dignifies agriculture above all
other means of earning a living, and would have artificial employments
given up. "Back to the land," he cries; and back he really goes, daily
working with the peasants. But 'tis a solemn, almost tragical
experience, not much better than the fate of the Siberian exile. Rise at
dawn; work till dark; eat--go to bed too tired to read a paper;--and no
money in it.
Let these once prosperous farms be given up to Swedish colonies, hard
working and industrious, who can do better here than in their own
country and have plenty of social life among themselves, or let wealthy
men purchase half a dozen of these places to make a park, or two score
for a hunting ground--or let unattached women of middle age occupy them
and support themselves by raising poultry.
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